


Bound Together

by sarai377



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, F/M, Non-Consensual, Torture, original timeline au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarai377/pseuds/sarai377
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original timeline/ Future Past(ish) AU. Grima!Female Robin/Risen!Chrom (as he appears in SMTxFE). </p><p>Grima decides to save Chrom for her own purposes, but gets more than she bargained for when she leaves his soul intact. A set of dark scenes exploring the dynamic between Grima, Robin, and Chrom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grima

**Author's Note:**

> I made the decision to make Grima female, since the god has taken Robin's female form. For the purposes of this fic, the dragon-form has not been brought out yet. 
> 
> When in Grima's perspective, "the host" refers to Robin/the Avatar. 
> 
> I added the Rape/Non-con warning, but I'm not planning on making this explicit, for now. Rating may change.
> 
> There will be eight parts to this, and possibly more. I hope you all enjoy my dark interpretation of the SMTxFE Chrom.
> 
> Based off of this lovely artwork by TiccyTX: http://ticcytx.tumblr.com/post/115405201699/hi-ticcy-so-what-do-you-think-of-the-persona

Grima laughs as she stabs the prince. The lightning bolt sparks and crackles against her fingertips. The shock emanating from her host echoes the surprise on the prince's face. Her host was too easy to take over, too staggered by Validar's truths. Grima was able to sneak in with minimal struggle. 

"Promise me... you'll escape from this place," the prince says haltingly, his eyes wide.  So trusting, so faithful. She laughs at him, for he doesn't yet realize Grima has already taken over, and there is no escape for her host. "Please, go," he begs, and his knees give out. 

He falls to the ground, and she carefully turns him over. She crouches beside him, running her fingers through his blue hair in a strangely wistful way. His eyes are closed, and she can feel the trembling slacken in his limbs as he fades further from life. She was destined to kill him, to take the Fire Emblem and take back her true form. 

Somewhere inside of her that pesky host is screaming.Grima feels a strange pain as the prince dies, and it isn't a physical pain that she can simply ignore. The bond her host had with him _hurts_ , and she winces. _That won't do_ , she thinks, and reaches for the dead prince with a glowing hand. 

This man kept her host happy, and he may still be of some use to Grima. With the panic of her host running through her, she pushes some of her own magic into him. She is the god of death but she can also bring life, of a sort. It is a half-life, and filled with pain and misery (just the way she likes it), and her host knows this. But still, the host stops screaming, removing that distraction. 

Grima weaves the rising soul back into the body with her magic, twisting and pulling against its natural inclination to escape. It fights against her, and her eyes glow red as she grips it.

"Stay with me," her host says to the soul, and it seems to hear it, for with a sound akin to a sigh, it stops fighting against Grima's magic. She feeds the magic back into his body, and the soul reattaches with a painful gasp.

The cursed symbol on his right arm flares to brightness, and she shields her eyes. _That will not do, either_. She pushes her hand down against it, burning it off the body that she is claiming. When she pulls her hand back, a blackened handprint sits across the flesh of his upper arm. It looks dainty and small. 

Chrom's eyes open, and Grima grins with glee at the dim blue light shining in them. She wonders idly if he will retain some of his personality, how many times she will have to bind him to her. She hopes he does fight her. It would make it all the sweeter. He reaches up a hand and touches her forearm, which rests against his chest. 

She doesn't usually make such a perfect Risen. Usually there are only shreds of the soul left when she gets there. _Such an exquisite form_ , she thinks, and finds herself attracted to this body still, thanks to her host's inclinations. 

His hand is gripping tight, tighter, and she feels the strength in his hand. There is fury in his eyes. A bone cracks in her forearm, and her grin widens. _Oh, yes._  His personality is still there, and he knows now what is happening.

The first binding is blood. She bites the side of her finger, tasting the hot coppery liquid, and then touches his mouth with it. He closes his eyes and drinks, but he is still gripping her forearm. He grinds the bones together, and with his other hand he reaches for her neck. She shifts out of the way, keeping her hand pressed against his chest. 

The second is voice. "Chrom," she purrs, feeling the dark magic crackling in her throat. "Listen to me. Let go." His eyes open and the glow is brighter now from her blood, and his hand reaches her neck. His fingers flutter at her throat, and then he runs his thumb along the ridges of her voice box. "Release me," she says. 

He grips her neck suddenly, and her grin expands. She had hoped the first two bindings weren't enough. 

The third binding is flesh.

Grima leans down, pressing with her more-than-human strength, and kisses him. He isn't expecting that, she can tell by the way his body freezes. With her blood still between their lips, she chuckles when he returns the kiss. He rolls them over suddenly, so that Grima lies on her back with Chrom over her. Her reddish-brown hair is spread out across the marble floor, and Chrom works his fingers into it as the kiss deepens. His hand is tight against her throat still, but when she reaches down to grip a very sensitive and excited part of him, his fingers slip off. He gasps against her neck. 

Her host does not like this binding much, but Grima cannot understand why. The host had his body all to herself for years, while Grima waited, watched, and lusted after it. Grima takes what she wants of him, and as their passions reach an end, he offers it up willingly. 

The third binding succeeds. Grima feels, distantly, the horror from her host, as she realizes what she helped Grima do to him. By calling his soul back, she has cursed him as much as Grima did. The agony tastes sweet. 

Grima pushes the prince off her, and he lays on his side, dazed. His eyes watch her as she stands.

"Arise, my prince," she calls, and he obeys, coming to stand before her. "With blood, voice and flesh, I bind you to me," she whispers, and reaches out to touch his cheek. 

"I am yours," he growls, and rubs his face against her hand. 

Skin-tight clothing wraps its way around his body as the third binding takes. The thin, flexible garment is set in blues and swirling golds, accentuating his fine body. She smiles, and runs her fingers down his chest.

Fabric wraps around his face from the second binding, sheathing his nose and mouth in heavy cloth. His eyes glow with the power from the first binding as he scowls at her. 

She sees in his eyes that he is still there, but bound to her will. She reaches for the wrappings at his face and pulls them down. She kisses him and he bites her lip, not hard enough to make her angry. She likes seeing the fight in him, and in a strange way, so does her host. But he is bound, so he cannot do her any harm that she doesn't wish him to. She replaces the wrappings at his face and cinches the belts around it, and all the while his glowing eyes show his hatred and his love, all bundled together. 

Grima steps back and admires him for a moment. Her host was right to protest his death. He is a stunning addition to her collection, and she has a feeling that she can use him to terrorize his once-friends. Her host protests this, but Grima doesn't care. She flexes her forearm, feeling that pain from the broken bone distantly. He shall pay for hurting her... but later. 

"Come, my prince," she says, striding across the marble floor away from him. Like a well-trained dog on a leash, he follows her. "We have a kingdom to claim."


	2. Grima

Grima feels Chrom's disapproval run up her spine. She turns a stony glare upon him, and he stares back. Her host agrees with his disapproval, screaming in her mind. She marvels at the strength of their protests, after all she has done to them both.

Could it be that the life she is squeezing out between her fingers... is more valuable to them than their own existence? That is something to file away, in case she needs persuasion, later on.

For now, she does as they wish. She releases the girl's throat. 

"M-mother?!" the girl croaks, staggering back.

“Your mother and father are dead, tiny one,” Grima says.

"Why are you doing this?" Her tone is filled with despair, and Grima enjoys it.

“Why?” Grima echoes, advancing on the girl. She backs up and bumps into the wall of the ruined castle. She is small and thin, perhaps twelve years of age. Her host has fond memories of this girl’s childhood, but Grima knows she isn’t a child any longer. “Because I heard you are leading the rebellion against me.”

“Against… you?”

Grima smiles, and lets some of her true form sneak out. Her eyes fill with red streaks, and she feels her second and third pairs of eyes open along her cheeks.

This girl supposedly has the host’s blood running through her veins, but all she sees with her enhanced vision is the cursed mark blazing in her left eye. It links her to the prince, even though his mark has been burned off.

“Grima,” the girl hisses, and Grima steps up to her, running a long-nailed finger along her wet cheek. The girl bats away Grima’s hand and stands up taller. “What have you done to Mother?”

The prince steps up beside Grima, turning those glowing eyes upon his mistress. Grima doesn’t need to hear his thoughts to know how upset he is that she is tormenting his – their – daughter.

The girl stares up at him, and then her eyes light on the sword at his side.

“Father,” she says in horror, finally seeing him for who he once was. “Oh, gods…”

"Lu-ci-na," the prince says haltingly, fighting for every syllable, even though he shouldn't be able to speak without her permission.His voice is muffled but the girl's eyes widen further. 

 _Oh, he'll pay for this insubordination later_ , Grima thinks, her eyes narrowing. 

"Father... what has she done to you?" Horror fills the girl's eyes, but she moves to him and wraps her arms around his chest. Grima could make him kill their daughter, but she doesn’t. The girl is safe, at least for the moment. He raises a hand slowly and touches her hair.

Chrom's glowing eyes stare back at her, promising a fight. There is something about this girl, his daughter with Grima's host, which brings out the spirit.

It will taste sweet when she crushes that defiance. Grima's mouth curls with pleasure as she imagines what she will do to him. His Risen body has gained quite a few scars, but he is resilient. Maybe she will make him long for it, beg her for another scar today. Her body tingles with her own desire.

With Grima, lust and pain go hand in hand.

Their daughter turns to Grima, tears in her eyes. "Why? Why did you do this to him? Why are you doing this to us?" Her voice breaks, already raw from the pressure of Grima's hands.

Grima frowns, and to her surprise her host begs her to speak. Amused, Grima steps back temporarily from her body, and it sags as the host tries to fit into it as she once did. To Grima, it is like a child trying to wear her mother’s cloak.

"Lucina..." Her voice is raspy and unused.

The prince goes still beside Lucina when he hears that one word. Funny how he knows that it is the host speaking, but then again, he's bound three times to Grima, so he would know. 

"Robin," he mutters. Grima loves the agony in his voice. 

"Lucina... I'm sorry," her host says, looking at the pale girl standing beside Chrom. The host tries to stand up tall, but it is difficult after all this time. "I didn’t know… how powerful Grima was… and I wanted to save him. There's no going back… and no saving us now."

The host moves Grima's body, her legs heavy, and her prince catches her as she stumbles into him. "Chrom... I should have let you go." She reaches out with Grima's hand. She tugs down the fabric around his face and rubs her fingers against him, gently petting him. He closes his eyes and leans into her touch.

Grima watches in amusement as her host manipulates Grima’s body. This is what her host must feel when Grima is in control. The host’s pain runs through Grima, and their body shudders with it. Grima shakes the feelings of sentimentality off as her prince responds. 

"We're... here together, fighting. Anything… can change." Chrom takes her hand, and Grima is overwhelmed by the painful swelling of her heart. She does not like this feeling.

"Enough," Grima snarls at both of them. She takes back her body with force, and slaps Chrom across the face. "It sickens me." 

Lucina cries out and clutches her hands to her mouth.

Chrom closes his eyes for a moment. He speaks, his voice heavy. "I still feel love... and you cannot take that away."

She scowls, but raises her hand to secure the fabric over his face. She cannot keep him from loving, he is right in that.

The girl reaches for the sword at Chrom's side, and Grima watches her too-small fingers grip the hilt. The Falchion rescinded its support of her prince after Grima bound him, but she always thought it was better to keep the sword close at hand. If it were put through the rite of passage, it could be used against her. 

"Stop her," Grima says to the prince, and he moves his arm, but too slowly. Lucina rips the blade from his sheath and points it at Grima, the tip shaking with her emotions. 

"My daughter," Grima coos, "Put that down." 

"I'm not your daughter!" Lucina shouts. "My mother is trapped in there, and my father. I could kill you and release both of them!" 

Grima thinks about that for a moment. She certainly could, although Grima doubts she actually would. But the chances are too high.

Another thought strikes her. Her bonds with the prince aren’t as strong as she originally thought. He might just throw himself on the sword against her will, if given the opportunity. She realizes then what a mistake she made, allowing him to retain some of his will. If he dies, she may die too. His death will lessen her, for certain.

She feels her eyes widen. 

He has heard the thought racing through her mind, and she can tell he is grinning beneath the wrap. 

Footsteps come up the stairs to their left, and Grima turns to look at the knight who had once sworn to protect her and her prince. He pauses at the top of the stairs, and to her surprise a name falls into her mind. _Frederick._ Her prince remembers this man. The knight takes in Grima, her fallen husband behind her, and then the girl.

“Lucina!” he cries, and rushes to protect her. He raises his blade toward Grima, but hesitates upon seeing the prince. Grima can tell it goes against every instinct in his body to point his sword at the prince, but he still does it. She grins, tasting his pain.

"Keep the sword, as a memento of your father," she says to the girl. Much as she wants to stay and force her prince to kill this man, she has other things to attend to. "Come, prince."

She turns to her Risen lover and runs her fingers down his blue clad arm. He closes his eyes as her touch brings out his desire for her, and the thoughts of standing against Grima to protect his daughter and long-time companion fall to the ground around him like shards of glass. She feels him quiver beneath her small hand.

She turns and walks away from her host's daughter, and does not look back. She feels the prince hesitate, and knows he is looking at the two people from his past. But he doesn’t have enough will and strength to remain. He walks at Grima’s side, and she rewards his obedience by twining her fingers between his gloved ones.

At least Grima still has the Fire Emblem. The girl can't activate the sword without the Fire Emblem. But when the prince looks at her, his eyes bore into her, and she realizes he knows where the Fire Emblem is hidden. 

 _Oh, he will pay for every defiant thought today_ , she thinks, and smiles up at him. She is very much looking forward to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are curious, I imagine that once Grima resurrected Chrom she left with him, leaving the Shepherds to fend for themselves against the Grimleal. So Frederick (and most of the rest) survive and return to Ylisse, although they are understandably confused by the fact that Chrom and Robin disappeared without a trace. Chrom and Robin are eventually assumed dead. Meanwhile, Grima creates an army of Risen and basically claims all of Plegia and Ylisse as her own. Eventually Grima takes her army to Ylisstol, the last hold-out against Grima's forces. Lucina becomes the Exalt in her father's absence and even without Falchion she declares against Grima, not knowing that her mother became Grima. This scene takes place inside the castle as they are taking over, a month or two after the first scene. 
> 
> The next scene will be from Robin's perspective, and will depict some torture/ non-consensual sex, although right now I don't think it will be explicit. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Robin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene has somewhat graphic torture, so please be warned.

The blade is so sharp that at first she doesn’t feel it. The first tingle reminds her of the brush of goosebumps running along skin, an indrawn gasp of ice crystals. The stinging, thin sharpness that hits a second later is exquisite, like a chorus of voices in harmony.

This is what Grima has done to them.

Robin floats within her glass-like prison and feels every pain that Grima inflicts on Chrom. She pulls the pain into herself as much as she can, the thin red string of fate that connects their souls stretched taut and fraying between them. 

It won’t break, though. She doesn’t think it will, in any case. It’s wrapped up in everything, so tangled and twisted that she doesn’t think even Grima can untangle it.

 _I did this_ , she thinks to herself, pressing her hands against the cold glass. She knows there is no glass, just as she knows she doesn't have hands. Her over-taxed essence has reverted back to the old standby form to protect her. It is easier to believe that there is a glass prison that she may be able to escape from, than to realize that there is no escape. She clings to that hope, even if the escape she wants is death. 

 _I did this to both of us, Chrom,_  she thinks, and tears drip down her face. _I deserve all this pain she's giving you._  She reaches through that frayed crimson thread and takes more of it into herself.  _I’m with you, Chrom._

His shining eyes are open and she knows he's looking at her, somehow. She takes that sadistic desire that Grima makes him feel, the craving for punishment, into herself, and her essence longs for it.

The knife is sharp and the feeling almost perfect in its pleasure.

Pain shared is pain halved, Chrom had told her long ago, when Emmeryn died. Or, had she told him? She can’t recall. The fact that she can’t recall would have caused panic before, when she was by herself, but now, inhabiting this body that Grima owns, it just is.

She remembers the love she and Chrom shared so long ago, before she killed him. The touch of his hand against hers as he awkwardly, passionately proposed. The way he would turn to her for comfort after a hard day’s battle. His gentle, ready smile, and the way he tucked her hair behind her ear, as if he can’t get enough contact with her.

That love might still be there, but it has been twisted and mangled so much that Robin isn’t sure if those are memories, or dreams. Robin shares them with Chrom anyway, knowing that he likes when she does. He doesn’t much care if they are fabrications, or if they are real.

A foreign memory rises up within her, and she sees herself holding their newborn baby - Lucina. Chrom’s strong arm reaches out and wraps around her, and she smiles up at him. The memory is Chrom's, and he's sharing it with her, as she tries to share his pain. More tears flow, this time in gratitude.

 _"We're here, together, fighting,"_  he had said. This is what he meant. They are bound together by more than just love, now. She feels the taut gossamer strings of spiderwebs, connecting Chrom to Grima, and through Grima to Robin.

Grima raises a hand, blood dripping from her fingers, and swipes at her cheeks. Robin realizes that her tears have actually passed through to the parasite controlling her body, yet again. She should feel triumph, but instead she just feels empty. 

 _“Don't make me do the fourth binding.”_ Grima’s voice is low, held in warning.

Robin shudders as she thinks about the next binding. Blood, voice, flesh… _Memory_. Grima would devour his memories, and tie him closer to her. It could be a bluff – Grima is already worried that she’s tied Chrom too tight to herself, making him a target that could bring death. Not true death, but death all the same. Chrom and Robin’s death, certainly. They would cease existing and Grima would slumber until the next time.

Robin would prefer that, most days. But she won’t take the chance, not with Chrom’s memories. If she loses what is left of him, and they all survive together… No. Her mind rejects the thought.

Selfishly, she clings to the parts of Chrom that are still him. They are both shadows of what they used to be, but he is still in there, still reaching for her.

Robin did this to him, anyway. She tugged on that red string connecting them when he died, and he had returned to her call. It had been enough. She will continue to suffer in this hell she created.

 _I will obey,_ Robin promises Grima, backing up from the glass, her hands up. _Please, don't do the binding._  

Grima turns her focus outward again.

Someday, Robin thinks, the pressure will snap and the glass will break, and she will be sucked away. She built the glass prison with Grima, to contain her and protect her, but too much pressure one way or the other, and the scales will tip away from Robin.

Robin stops crying and grips that red string.

The knife falls from Grima’s fingers, hitting the bed beside Chrom’s hand. All it would take is a shift of his hand, and an upward thrust through her body’s sternum. Robin wants it so badly in that instant, but Chrom’s hand does not grip it.

Grima kisses him, and giggles deep in her throat at Robin’s despair. Chrom returns the kiss with passion, ignoring or embracing the deep gashes Grima has inflicted on his torso as he leans up to touch and kiss more of her. The damage will heal soon enough, leaving ugly scars. Even bound to Grima as he is, his body can only heal so far. Grima is the Fell Dragon, after all, and tied up in death, not life.

Robin stays with them, trying to fall in with Grima. Grima welcomes her in like a sleeve fitting around an arm. Blissful sensation rubs against their skin, and Robin gasps at the tactile overload. Chrom’s hands run up and down her body and Robin shudders.

 _I’m with you, Chrom_. She has to keep thinking it, to remind herself.

It is the only thing keeping her clinging to this half-life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has given me Kudos and Comments! I've got 3 more scenes of this little story planned. Please let me know what you think! The next scene will be from Chrom's POV, I believe (and it should be a little longer than this one).
> 
> I also found the perfect song for this rendition of Chrobin - Skulls, by Bastille. That song was playing on repeat while I was editing this scene.
> 
> I finished the DLC Future Past 3 last night, and wow. (I got the incomplete ending because not all the characters survived). The interactions between Chrom and Grima, and Lucina and Grima, at the end are... beautiful. You might see my interpretations of those in later scenes.


	4. Chrom

Chrom stares at the Fire Emblem, crouching beside it. The lights in his eyes glow and reflect off the surface of the golden convex surface and shine from within the gemstones. He can remember bearing the object on his arm. Faintly, he recalls a blonde-haired woman giving it to him, telling him to keep it safe. He doesn’t remember who she is, and that makes him sad.

Grima would be glad to taste his sadness, but she’s not here.

She left him alone. It is rare that she leaves Ylisstol without him. He thinks it is a test.

He wonders how Robin is doing without him by her side. He doesn’t pray for her safety– Naga has forsaken him, and he knows Grima doesn’t listen to prayers. Rather, he just thinks of Robin and hopes she will return with Grima. As he stares at the Fire Emblem, he thinks, _Please, don’t fade from me. Don’t leave me alone with her_.

The thought of being alone with Grima – without Robin’s protective support – makes a shudder run down his spine.

He imagines it for a moment. Grima loves to cause pain, and she’s made him enjoy receiving it. Just thinking about their last intimate encounter, where Grima burned her handprint into his thigh, makes his body fill with longing. He runs his fingers up his leg, feeling the burning ache intensify.

He wishes she were here, so that he could beg for her to touch him. Sometimes Grima gives in to his pleading, and touches him, granting him that sexual release he needs, but other times, she leaves him longing. Her glowing red eyes mock him as she hovers just out of reach. She devours his agony as she forbids him the pleasure of Robin’s body. Grima knows full well that he loved Robin since the moment he first set eyes on her, and she taunts him with it.

Grima has taken his love and warped it, bound him to her with that love. Deep inside, he hates her for it – perhaps more than he loves her.

Chrom whimpers deep within his throat as desire runs hot and unsatisfied through him. Briefly, he contemplates trying to pleasure himself, but he knows it won’t help. Grima has rewired him too thoroughly for that.

Instead, he rests his forehead against the wall beside him, and focuses on taking deep breaths. This is usually when Robin reaches for him, and cools the desire, but she is not here.

Thinking of Robin’s presence slowly tempers him. He imagines her ice cold touch in his mind, soothing, whispering soft comforts. He remembers more when she is with him, and Robin is less sad when he gives her his own memories. She tries to hold him to himself, as he was before she killed him.

But Grima wants him to change from who he was, to be her creature to call, obedient but defiant. He wants to be both selves. The thoughts spin in circles in his mind, and he wishes they were both here. He doesn’t feel out of control like this, when they are with him.

He picks up the Fire Emblem, and holds it. Grima _is_ testing him, he is certain of it. She won’t kill him, of that he is certain. She bound them too tight together, that if he dies, she may also. What will it mean for Robin, if he takes the Emblem? More pain, more suffering. He doesn’t want to cause her pain, but he craves the punishment.

He hopes this will be worth it.

He carries the Emblem from its hiding spot. The city is in ruins, the palace in shambles. Smoldering ashes surround him as he passes through an archway. Chrom has faint memories of a different atmosphere, of happiness. He clings to the memories of his children that this journey brings up.

He can’t remember the boy’s name, but he recalls Lucina. He knows their faces, their voices, calling for their father, chasing him around in that once-green courtyard. He clings to the pride he first felt, looking down on his firstborn daughter; the joy of his son’s tiny fingers gripping his finger, looking up at him with those wide, innocent, faithful eyes. Robin would be less sad, he thinks, and an almost smile touches his covered mouth. He has to try and hold these memories close, to share them with her when she returns.

But as he continues into the city, they fade into sorrow. Ylisstol should have been his children’s heritage, and instead he has helped destroyed it. He grunts as that thought burns its way down his spine. Hot tears leak out of his eyes, and he is surprised that he can actually cry, still. It seems a human thing to do, and Chrom knows he is no longer human.

Sometimes he wishes Robin would share more of her memories with him. She holds so much more than he can, and he likes the glimpses into their past. But he understands why she doesn’t - those memories _hurt_. 

His mind leaps forward and away, and he lands on the clearest memory. 

The moment when he died.

He inhales sharply and the smoky world appears brighter for a few moments. _Oh gods_ , does he remember dying. That pain fading into shards of glass, and then into a numbness that coats everything. He felt his soul separating, rising, the world around him fading into light - and then Robin called him back.

The pain as Grima sewed him back into his dead body became spine-tingling bliss.

He knows the memory is tempered with his own sadist views. Or Grima’s sadist views, he’s not certain which. He _knows_ dying was agony and not pleasure, but thanks to Grima's intervention he is living this half-life, and things that once caused him pain now cause pleasure.

Eventually he reaches his destination. The dirt-coated guards recognize him, but don’t make any attempt to attack him. Nervously they watch him, and one of them runs off further into the stronghold. He doesn’t recognize any of the guards, but doesn’t want to think about why.

Chrom will wait. He is in no hurry. Grima and Robin are far away. He can sense Grima if he focuses, and through her, Robin’s dim presence.

Eventually, several people appear beyond the gates. The knight who came to Lucina’s rescue, when Grima nearly killed her, comes out toward him. Several of the guards approach cautiously with him.

“M-milord,” the knight calls, one hand on his sword, and stops a few paces away. “Is _she_ with you?”

Chrom shakes his head once, slowly.

“Why are you here, then?”

Chrom looks down at the Fire Emblem in his gloved hands, and wonders the same thing. Why did he come here? Faintly, he remembers something, but it is not enough. It has to do with the Emblem, of that he is certain.

“Father!”

His head comes up, and he sees her running toward him. Lucina – his daughter. She comes close and the knight grabs her shoulder.

“Stay back, Princess,” the knight growls. “He’s dangerous.”

 _Not to her. Never to her_ … but beneath that thought, Chrom realizes that if Grima asked him to do it, he doesn’t think he could stop himself.

He holds out the Fire Emblem toward her with trembling hands.

“Is that…” The knight finally realizes what Chrom is holding. His eyes are wide.

Chrom looks at the knight, and a name surfaces in his mind. _Frederick_. He cannot speak, not so far from Grima, and without her blessing. The tightness in his throat intensifies as he tries to say the name, until he bows his head with the pain of it. The Fire Emblem falls from his fingers, hitting the cobblestones with a heavy thud.

“I’ve missed you, Father,” Lucina says, and she is suddenly beside him. She grips his hand, and he stares at the brand in her eye. It hurts, but it also soothes.

He feels a strength from that symbol, and knows he will be able to speak just one word. He uncinches the belts holding the fabric around his face, and stares right at her. “Awakening,” he says, and points to the Falchion at her waist. It is much too large for her, but he is touched by a strange fondness at seeing his old blade, protecting his daughter. He drags his finger across to the Fire Emblem at their feet.

Lucina’s eyes fill with tears, but she nods. “I understand, Father. You want me to perform the Awakening.”

He closes his eyes and nods, then puts the wrappings up again.

The knight stands a few paces from them, watching. He takes Lucina’s shoulder and starts to draw her back. She twists out of his hand and throws herself at Chrom.

“Father…” Her whole body shakes as she grips him, and he wraps his arms around her. He bows his head and rests his cloth-swathed face against her hair.

She smells a bit like Robin used to, beneath the grime. Tears leak from his glowing eyes as he holds her. He mourns with his daughter, for the childhood cut short, for the loss of her family, for the pressure of being one of the last exalted. He wishes he could do more, but knows he cannot.

This pain does not convert to pleasure, and he is grateful. Eventually, though, he has to let go.

He returns to the castle, awaiting his punishment and the return of the two women he loves, bound into one body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a wonderful, painful chapter to write. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did while writing it. Poor Chrom...
> 
> Right now, I'm guessing I've got at least four more scenes in the queue. The next one will probably be Grima's POV, and it will feature Morgan... be ready for another angsty one. Probably be a couple of weeks before that scene is ready. 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter!


	5. Robin

_Robin runs her fingers across Chrom's sweaty, hot forehead. The bedroom is quiet and dark, except for the glow from Lissa's staff, and_ _her heartbeat rushing in her ears._

_"Don't worry, Robin," Lissa says, smiling. "He'll be fine. It's just a fever. You know he overworks himself when he's feeling under the weather."_

_Lissa wouldn't smile if it was dire, and so Robin relaxes._

_Beneath Robin's hand, Chrom shifts and mutters something she can't catch. He squints slightly, looking at them, and then tries to rise._

_“It’s okay, Chrom, stay still,” Robin whispers, and his eyelids drift closed again._

_"I’ve got this. Go on, before you get sick too," Lissa chides, and gives Robin a gentle push with one hand._

_“Thanks, Lissa.” Robin gives Chrom’s forehead one more pat, and steps out into the sitting room._

_"Mommy, is Daddy okay?" Morgan demands, running up to her and clasping his seven-year-old arms around her. Morgan and Lucina were with Chrom in the gardens when he collapsed._

_"Yes, is he?" Lucina looks up, Falchion bared in her hands._

_A heavy weight sits on Robin’s heart for an instant, looking at her sweet ten-year-old daughter holding the ancient blade. Chrom has kept Falchion close since she first met him, almost twelve years ago, and seeing it always reminds her of him. He keeps it in pristine condition, and he’s always told Robin that he wants to hand it off to his children someday._

A sorrow runs through her, bitter and painful, but she veers away from it.

_"He'll be fine," Robin tells them almost absently._

_Chrom had Morgan and Lucina try out the sacred blade a year ago. Robin was proud and relieved that they both could wield it, despite their mother's ancestry. Robin blinks tears from her eyes, seeing the purple mark on Lucina's right hand, just like her mother. Morgan’s is hidden on his bicep, like his father’s exalted brand._

_"Don't cry, Mommy," Morgan says, and Robin swipes at the tears._

_“Will he really be okay?” Lucina comes forward, widening her blue eyes._

_Robin gently shakes herself, realizing that she’s scaring her children. "Yes, he really will be fine,” she says with confidence. “You know he doesn't know how to take it easy. Aunt Lissa is with him right now." Morgan clasps her hand. "Would you put that away, please, Lucina? You know we don't hold bared swords inside the castle."_

_"I can't find the sheath," Lucina says, and offers it to Robin when she moves toward her daughter. The blade is almost as tall as Lucina is, and it is very heavy in Robin's hand. Robin realizes the sheath is probably with Chrom's clothing in their bedroom, so she lays the sword reverently on the desk._

_"Can we see him?" Lucina asks._

_"He needs rest, dear," Robin says, and puts her arm around her daughter. Morgan clings to her other arm. "Maybe in a little while."_

_She stands there, her two children pressed against her, and smiles down at their loving, trusting faces._

It is easy to forget that she is trapped, until Grima shatters her calm.

_“Stop with the_ _sentiment_ ,” Grima snarls, and the memory is plucked from Robin's mind.

_No!_ she shrieks, and lunges for it, but as ever, Grima is in control, and Robin holds only that which Grima gives her. Grima laughs as she dangles it just out of Robin’s reach. She shreds the memory, but tears leak down Grima’s face as she does.

Robin feels the hole left by the memory, the absence of it, and it burns.

_“That’s more like it,”_ Grima says, and Robin experiences the gleefulness at the same time she feels that incredible loss. Robin can’t quite remember what the memory contained, but it must have been strong, for Grima to react as she did.

Robin doesn’t recall Grima taking her memories from her before. Chrom's, yes, but never Robin's. Robin wonders what has changed. 

_“I'm sick of being overwhelmed by these… feelings_.”

Robin can't help but feel triumph in that.  _Those feelings are part of who I am – who you are._

_“No. In that, you are wrong. I do not feel_ love _.”_ Grima slaps the horse’s neck with the reins, and the poor creature tosses its head and tries to buck her off.

This whole lonely journey they have jostled back and forth. Robin’s body was not meant for two souls, and Grima has grown more and more frustrated with Robin’s continued existence. Robin feels like a trespasser in her own body, lurking and watching.

She understands, now, that Chrom's presence keeps them from being too aware of each other. He acts as a shield between them, and a distraction. She misses him, profoundly, so much that the loneliness echoes painfully.

_“Good,_ ” Grima says with a smile.

_Why did you leave him?_ Robin asks Grima, but gets no response. Robin thinks about it for a time, but even that is painful. Trying to guess Grima’s reasons is like trying to predict the weather.

Robin tries to pay attention to their surroundings, but it is difficult when she can’t interact with any of it. She doesn’t want to use the memories to distract herself, for fear that Grima will destroy them one by one. She shifts away from Grima and reality, moving deeper.

Memories are all she has left at the moment, deep within her glass prison, but she pushes them away. As her hands brush against the bubbles of better times, she catches a brief flash of Chrom’s fierce expression in the heat of battle, the bashful grin as he did something kind for her. She wants to preserve as many of those memories as possible, to share with Chrom when they go back to him. Robin floats away from the memories and the cold glass, until the only part of herself that is left is a faint outline of her body, and whatever is contained within it.

For the first time, Robin thinks about what it would feel like to let go. She holds herself together because of that red string, connecting her to Chrom and Grima. But what if… she became fully incorporeal, and couldn’t feel the strings any longer? They would pass through her, untouched, unknown. She could have… peace.

Tears rise up in her eyes, and she lets them flow, surrounding herself in sorrow and silence.

She drifts.

It doesn’t hurt as much as Robin expected, this drifting. All the pain and feeling and _life_ that she’s tried to cling to flutters away from her, and she can’t bring herself to care.

The sunlight above her head seems dim, and far away. The darkness grows deeper, heavier, welcoming, like a thick blanket on a cold winter’s night.

This is probably what Grima wants… but she doesn’t care.

_Please, don’t fade from me_ , she hears.

Chrom.

She’s not sure how, but she knows she’s hearing his voice. It is not a figment, or a memory. That red string tugs insistently, and she pulls her partially-diffused essence back together.

_Don’t leave me alone with her._ His sadness drags on her, and she holds tight to that string.

He’s right. She can’t leave him alone with Grima. Not when she did this to him.

Her essence solidifies, and she pushes up in the water, swimming rapidly toward the sunlight above her. She smacks into a large glass panel, inches below the water’s surface. She knows she doesn’t need something as silly as breath, but right now her lungs burn for it. Panic rushes through her – has Grima somehow locked her out when she was drifting?

_"Enough,”_ Grima hisses, and reaches for Robin. She pulls her through the glass and Robin screams, feeling those awful broken shards scraping through her. If she were a tangible form, instead of a wraith of her former self, she would bleed out in a few moments. “ _Why won’t you just leave?”_ Grima demands, and Robin catches on her frustration.

With a clarity that astounds her, Robin _knows_ that Grima left Chrom to try and purge Robin from her own body. Grima wants to be with Chrom as much as Robin does, but she wants Robin gone more.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Robin is angry. It burns the edges where Grima touches her, and they grapple for control for a moment.

_“Is this what you want?”_ Grima cries scathingly, and tosses Robin into full control over their shared body.

_At long last…_ Robin sags, and blinks. Her body, which she once commanded without conscious thought, is heavy like a waterlogged tome. She smells wood burning somewhere nearby, and hears strange sounds she can’t quite identify.

When she opens her eyes, she sees Morgan.

He stares back at her, squinting. Her baby boy, looking haggard and skinny and _defeated_. He was always more sensitive than Lucina, and so she’s not surprised to see anxiety on his face.

She doesn’t like seeing the sorrow that has been etched into every line of his body.

Robin raises a shaky hand and caresses her son’s cheek, and he throws himself against her.

“Mother!”

She staggers, but holds his light, shaking form, caressing his hair as she used to. _This is what Grima was looking for. Our son. To… corrupt him._ A laugh bursts from Robin’s mouth, high and somewhat manic. She wonders what Chrom will think of this.

“I thought you died!” he sobs, pressing his body against hers. His voice grows frantic and difficult to understand. “They told me… you both died!”

“Oh, Morgan, I did,” Robin whispers, her voice soft and broken. She presses her face against his hair. He smells dirty, and he stands taller than he used to. Robin doesn’t know how long it has been since she last saw him – the days and weeks and years have all blended together. “I love you, baby,” she whispers.

And then Grima takes over, and Robin’s body is no longer under her control. Grima doesn’t even have to fight to claim it, as she did that very first time, when Robin killed Chrom. The Fell Dragon simply picks up the strings of the puppet, and Robin can’t stop her.

“Morgan, I need you to do something for me,” Grima says, tilting his face gently up toward her.

“Anything, Mother!” he exclaims, grinning.

_No! Grima, stop!_ She rages against Grima until all her strength is gone, and she hovers at the edge, panting and shivering. _Not Morgan. Please, not Morgan_.

_So trusting… so gullible_ , Grima gloats. _He is perfect._

And then Grima forces her plans deep into Robin like a blade. Robin winces back, horrified. What she plans to do with Morgan… is terrible.

Grima grins, and runs her fingers over Morgan’s face. The motion is similar to Robin’s caress from a few moments ago, and yet the intent behind it is possessive. _The perfect weapon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the Morgan feels… For some reason the Chrobin children just kill me. I was playing with the thought that Robin subconsciously knew that Grima might take her memories, or she has already done it but Robin forgot, so she’s calling on a less-wonderful memory at the beginning. I wasn’t planning on doing this chapter from Robin’s POV, but it worked out really well this way.   
> When I’m almost ready to post the next chapter, I’ll put an estimate date on my AO3 profile. So if you’re curious as to when the next update will be, you can check there!   
> Next chapter, Grima finds out what Chrom did. I believe I have four more parts to write.  
> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, and thank you for your patience!


	6. Grima

Her host’s son is completely different from the daughter. Pliable, faithful, _trusting_ – and full of darkness, dormant and waiting.

Grima watches as the boy’s thin body stumbles along beside her, falls to the ground with exhaustion. They have stopped often for food and rest, and she burns with impatience. Even with the horses, it has been too long. Her prince is waiting for her.

The boy is weak, still. She flexes her fingers. It would take just a little of her magic to prop him up, to give him boundless energy -

_No._ _Don’t you dare._

Grima chuckles, amused at the vigor her host has exhibited since she learned Grima’s plans for the boy. She had hoped to rid herself of that pesky voice in the back of her mind, but now the opposite has happened.

She reaches out to pull the boy to his feet. He smiles at her, but his smile is faded around the edges.

“It’s been twelve hours, Mother. Aren’t you tired?”

“No, I’m not. But if you are, then we shall rest.” And so Grima settles down to make camp for this weakling, this half-Fellblood. She locates a rabbit in the field beyond them, and cooks it with her magic. He devours the meat from the bones, and then falls into a deep sleep, curled up beside her.

She sits with her back against a tree, and listens to the night. In her ruined city, there is no wildlife, but out here she hears the hooting of an owl in the trees, the chirping of crickets. If she focuses, she can feel the presence of mice and raccoons. Most of the creatures sense her presence - the ultimate predator, her magic reaching and stretching across the land - and they have the sense to stay far enough away.

Her marked hand runs along his hair as the boy rests his head against her thigh. In spite of his shortcomings, his mortal failings, he is cooperative, and his innocence holds great potential for pain. He is not burdened by his father’s brand, which she likes. It is much easier to hear his thoughts and bend his decisions.

She is surprised to find herself quite taken with him, actually. Who would have thought the Fell Dragon could have motherly feelings for a mortal, her son?

_He is not yours,_ her host protests. _You are not his mother_.

_“I could be,”_ Grima retorts, and her mark glows. _“I could be a better mother to him than you were.”_

The host screams, and Grima smiles carefully. She enjoys baiting her the host.

Speaking of baiting her… Grima presses a sleeping spell upon the boy at her side. When she shifts, his head falls roughly to the ground, but he doesn’t stir. He sleeps like the dead.

Grima rises and moves beyond the fire. Her prince comes out of the shadows, his eyes glowing bright in the darkness, and he enfolds her in a hug. He presses his cloth-covered face against her shoulder, and holds on tightly.

“I take it you missed me?” she asks softly, twining her fingers into his hair.

He nods into her shoulder, holding on even tighter. He picks her up and she wraps her legs around him. The fallen prince backs her into a tree, grinding his hips against hers. She sighs, feeling his _need_ rush over her skin, and then pulls down the fabric from his face. He smells like smoke and death, and under all of that, a faint layer of his own scent, masculine and a bit sweaty.

He kisses her, rough and with teeth, and the sharp taste of blood – hers, this time – brightens the world around her, enhances the contact between them.

“I missed you too,” she whispers against his neck, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He growls in her hair, his lust rising as his gloved hands run along her body.

And then one of his thoughts crosses her mind, and she digs her fingers into his hair, pulling his head back.

“You did _what?_ ” she demands.

He stares up at her, those blue eyes glowing with her animated power, and smiles. That smile burns a hot rage through her, and her body quivers.

She feels her host tensing up within her, and then a happiness, strange and foreign, floods Grima.

“Put me down,” she snarls, and the prince obeys. She stalks a few paces from him, shaking her head. She can’t believe he actually did it, and without her knowing at the time. Her host had been distracting her at the time, overwhelming her with sentiments and feelings.

She had been so certain he was going to obey – so sure that he was hers, that he wouldn’t actually do it.

Her hands tighten into fists. Both of them will pay for this, _right now_.

“Strip down,” she commands the prince, and he looks at her for a few moments, his glowing eyes filled with some emotion she can’t immediately place.

There’s that defiance she usually enjoys… but right now, she wants to rip it from him, to shred him to pieces and leave just his bones. Her hands tighten into fists at her side. He’s never defied her this directly before.

Deep inside, she hears that pesky host laughing, and the bitter sound splashes oil onto the fire within.

Her eyes light up and those scarlet streaks dance across them again. She feels her cheeks burn as her extra eyes open and stare at her defiant, treacherous prince. _Go ahead,_ she thinks, and knows he hears her. _Make me force you._

After another moment, he starts removing his clothing. The sight of all the scars she’s given him, coming into view on that pale grayish skin, calms her somewhat. She runs her fingers along the white slashes and half-healed burns. He shivers when she touches the first scar, the lightning bolt entry at his sternum.

Her host’s agony as she runs a feathered touch across that mark fills Grima with delight. It is the one they gave him together – his blood, his death, and now his second _life_ , are on both of their souls equally, spread between the two.

Grima loves that she’s tainted her host that much.

She rouses that lust in her prince again, and his body responds. Those bright glowing eyes narrow, his still-powerful muscles tense on his shoulders and torso. Grima leans against him, her clothed body pressing a long line against his. He grabs her upper arms and grinds against her again, needy.

“Stop,” she says, and he does. She studies his face, runs a long-nailed finger across his lips, down his chin. He is her creature to call, to own, and yet he has disobeyed her. He deserves punishment. They both do.

_The fourth binding_ , her heart whispers, and yet she hesitates.

Within her, the host grows still, quivering, like the rabbit she stalked for her son earlier.

_You wouldn’t,_ the host says, but she sounds uncertain. That voice, that hesitation, reminds Grima of why she tried to get rid of her host. She still influences Grima, more than Grima likes to admit.

_Ha,_ the host says, with a feeling like a determined smile. _I told you we are one._

“No, we are not!” Grima’s body quivers with rage. She doesn’t have to do the fourth binding to destroy all of his memories.

She calls on her power, touches the three links between the prince and herself, and reaches within his fragmented mind, seeking out those memories he has left. They glow blue and then flare red as she touches them.

_Chrom raises Falchion and slays the Risen between him and Robin, then rushes to her side. He drops the exalted blade to the trampled grass and kneels beside her. Frederick stands beyond them, guarding the prince as he tries not to lose his mind at the sight of his secret fiancée lying still on the grass._

_He hears someone calling for Lissa or Maribelle, distantly._

_There is a deep wound in her shoulder, where an axe cut deep to the bone, and her cloak is stained to the elbow with tacky blood._

_“Robin… please, Robin,” he pants._

_She opens her eyes and relief floods him, tasting like water in the hot Plegian desert._

_“You’re alive,” he cries, and lifts her into his arms._

_“I love you,” she whispers,_ _and her hand flutters against his cheek, much as his heart is fluttering madly in his chest. She-_

GONE. The memory burns clean, leaving no trace  - just an empty void where it used to lie cradled and protected.

The pained noise her prince makes soothes something deep within Grima, and she pauses, letting it run through her.

The host goes silent, shock stilling her for a moment. That pleases Grima too.

The next memory leaps up almost defiantly, and Grima is swept into it. Her toes nearly curl with delight as he gives her another tool to use against him.

_The nine-year-old boy is nothing if not determined. His tongue sticks out of his mouth as he holds the heavy blade tight, moving it with a precision that Chrom is very proud of. Morgan doesn’t wield it as easily as Lucina, and Chrom isn’t certain if that is because of the age difference, or something else._

_The blade swings downward, and Chrom hovers behind him, ready to grip his forearms and steady Falchion if Morgan loses control of it – but he doesn’t, and the apple is sliced in two, leaving the rock it sat on untouched and unmarked._

_Morgan looks over his shoulder at Chrom and beams. His eyes light up, and Chrom nods, inordinately proud of his son, wielding the blade with such poise. “Dad, do you think-”_

GONE – that memory is gone too, and whatever the boy was going to ask is burned away forever. Grima laughs this time, determined to pick through her prince’s memories one by one, until he submits to her. If she removes all of them, will he obey her without question?

Only one way to find out.

She feels strong hands on her neck, and opens her three sets of eyes. His thumbs squeeze against her larynx.

“You fool, I don’t need to breathe,” she says, and his fingertips twine together at the back of her neck, tightening.

She can’t speak any longer with her normal voice, so she projects her psychic voice at him, and he flinches as her words raze his mind like Arcfire. _“I am the Fell Dragon Grima. This mortal shell does not contain me. I contain it. Release me.”_

“I… hate you,” the prince growls, but he lets go. His hands hang limp at his side, his head bowed.

“Oh, I know, dear,” she says, her voice rough, and she pats one of his hands. He shifts away from her, but with a thought, she draws him back to her. His anger, that delicious rage, satisfies the part of her that hungers constantly. His hands slip around her waist, and she builds up that lust again.

“No,” he whispers, but presses his face against her neck, his breath hot against her skin. “I don’t… want to… ahhh…” He trails off as her fingers press against his groin, rubbing gently, sensually. Those long blue eyelashes flutter closed as he fights the losing battle against Grima’s superior will.

“You are mine, Chrom,” she says, and his presence of mind melts away at his name rolling from her lips.

The sound he makes is low and guttural.

She lets him strip off her clothing, and that despairing desire flows through both of them like wind. He presses her back against the tree, raises her hips, and thrusts into her. His movements are animalistic, possessive. Grima touches his mind and feels that he is gone on the sensations of her body, her voice in his ear, the tang of her blood still lingering in his mouth.

Despite her anger with him, she allows him to release into her. He groans and his hands grip her body tight to him as he shudders.

He falls to his knees before her when he’s done, a trembling shell of the once proud man he used to be. She rubs her hand against his face, and he kisses it, then he raises adoring eyes to her.

It is only at this point that Grima realizes her host has been silent for a long time. Usually, she is there, tugging and pulling Grima and the prince from each other. _Strange,_ Grima thinks. She searches, and finds the spirit huddled deep within, vibrating with quiet rage.

“ _That was not your punishment, yet,_ ” Grima tells the host’s spirit, and she uncoils, curiosity and dread piqued in spite of her inclination to hide from the agony. With a tendril of thought almost like a hand, Grima reaches out and draws the host up with her. She can’t resist Grima’s pull.

Grima moves slowly back toward the fire, a deep pleasure within her lower abdomen. Her lover follows, pacified and dazed. Both of them are fully clothed once more.

“You did well,” she praises him, and he draws closer, but otherwise doesn’t seem to hear her words. Without the host’s interruptions, Grima was able to roll him with her mind. She smiles at him.

He does not notice or recognize the sleeping boy beside the fire - his eyes watch Grima as if she is the most important thing in his world.

The host is not under that same spell, and she lashes out at Grima as she catches onto her plans. _No. Not Morgan. Don’t you_ dare _, Grima!_

“And what will you do to stop me?” Grima laughs, a deep terrible sound that echoes across the forest, a mere flex of her power. The nighttime sounds go silent, the crickets and the wind’s rustling of the trees ceasing. A blanket of darkness covers the area, deadening all sounds.

Her power stretches, and she reaches out toward the boy. He rouses at the touch of her marked hand, blinking exhaustion out of his eyes.

“Mother? What…” he trails off. His eyes take on a scarlet cast as Grima’s power manifests deep within. He shakes his head and blinks a couple of times, and then rises to his knees before her.

Grima laughs. Beside her, the prince trembles. He’s still deep in the fog that she cast over his mind, but he senses something is wrong. He will see, soon enough.

“My boy,” she purrs, catching Morgan’s chin. “I have something for you to do.”

“Yes, Master,” the boy responds, and smiles, that sweet innocent smile that even Grima’s power cannot destroy.

The host’s scream of rage is music to Grima’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hail Grima. I love this story. 
> 
> I know that Grima is firmly female in this story, so this is the only time that Morgan will call Grima “Master” – but I thought it was fitting that the first time, he would call her that. 
> 
> And this story just keeps getting longer and longer – no idea how many more scenes I’ve got left at this point. 
> 
> Next chapter… Morgan’s POV. Hope you guys are ready for the next one… it’s going to be even more painful. Please let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!


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